Exsanguination
by Croik
Summary: "Tell me if you become uncomfortable and want me to stop," says Hannibal, just before he wraps his fingers around Will's throat.


Wrote this just after episode 1. Warnings for disturbing themes/imagery, though no actual violence.

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**Exsanguination**  
Oneshot

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"Tell me if you become uncomfortable and want me to stop," says Hannibal, just before he wraps his fingers around Will's throat.

Will's first thought is that he is already uncomfortable. He doesn't like being in Hannibal's office; he's not a patient. He doesn't like the broad, empty weight of the space around him. He doesn't like the dark. But he keeps his eyes closed, listening to the _thud, thud, thud_ of his own heart. His Adam's apple bobs against the meat of Hannibal's palm, shifting the flesh, and he can feel the joint of Hannibal's thumb as a bony point against his jugular.

So much for social calls.

Then the space begins to fill. Like a leaky dam the first questions trickle into his brain, wondering what Hannibal is up to, why he hasn't asked yet, why a psychiatrist's hands would be so rough. He's met a few in his time, after all, and most of them don't have hands like this. Though well cared for there's no hiding the blunt edges of hands that have seen labor. Each fingertip bears ridges carved like deep trenches, and Will can feel every whorl printed against his throat. He imagines purple and yellow blossoming across his skin in the shape of Hannibal's identity.

He imagines white powder on his face, latex gloves and careful tape, and he thinks about how hard it would be to take a print off him when he hasn't shaved in three days.

Will's heart _thuds, thuds, thuds_ in his lips and nose. Hannibal isn't squeezing, but even the slight pressure prevents the blood from draining down as easily as it should, and as it builds a tingling spreads across Will's face. Pins and needles remind him of the legs of insects crawling over a body. His ringing ears bring to mind the wake of gunshots. The plush cushion behind his head is coffin padding. The dam is breaking. Everything around him is dark but it's no longer empty, it's freshly churned soil six feet deep. He's growing cold.

Will clenches his teeth together, clenches his fists against the armrests. He reins himself in because he knows he's supposed to. Hannibal doesn't play games lightly and there's a point to this, a puzzle for him to solve or a test to pass. So Will focuses his mind again, brings it back to Hannibal's hand against his trachea. It's heavy, and hot, and so uncommonly still. Any man holding his arm up for so long ought to shudder or fidget, but not Hannibal. But then, Will suddenly isn't sure how long it's been.

"Dr. Lecter?" he says, and his voice is hoarse.

"Yes, Will?"

Hannibal's voice, so calm and close to his ear, spirals through the cracks in Will's grey matter. He thinks about gunshots again. His hands tighten against the chair and he remembers the sweat slick grip of the pistol, the blood on his face. He remembers his world cracking open like a maw and him a shuddering, helpless wretch. The _thud, thud, thud_ of red on a tile floor makes a madman of him, but then Hannibal is there, his wide, rough hand staunching the flow. He remembers Hannibal saving a life.

And he wonders what it's like, to feel the life rushing out of you. The cold of blood loss settles in and arteries collapse. The lungs flutter and strain. Fingers and toes go numb. In the empty dark Will feels his body tingle and cool all around him. When he tries to take in a breath, his chest seizes with a gasp of panic. He can feel the hot steel in his throat. There's blood welling at the angry wound and only Hannibal's steady hand is keeping it at bay.

"I..." Will twitches in the chair, his jaw dropping open as he fails to take in needed air. He can't draw breath through his shredded windpipe.

"Yes, Will?" Hannibal says again.

Will tries to answer. When he can't, one of his hands frees itself from the armrest and grasps blindly, gripping Hannibal's sleeve. What does death feel like? Tears well in the corners of his eyes as the deprivation of oxygen takes its toll, and all he can do is cling to the man at his side, certain that the moment Hannibal lets go, the blood will pour out of him like a flood.

"Will," Hannibal says gently. "Tell me to stop."

Will chokes on a protest, and his other hand snaps to the back of Hannibal's, holding it in place. He'll die if it moves. He's dying already.

"It's all right. It's all right, Will. Tell me."

"No," Will gasps out, his eyes still tightly shut.

"All right." Hannibal rubs his thumb against Will's jaw. "Whenever you're ready."

He sounds so damn patient. It should be impossible for even a doctor to be so calm with blood pumping _thud thud thud_ over his fingers. But then Will remembers, _that's the point_. He opens his eyes and sees Hannibal as a dying young girl must have seen him, gazing down on him, intense but not frantic, his features blurred by lash-trapped teardrops. Not an angel but a steady savior. He tries to dig deeper, to be in her place and know what it means to be drawn back from the abyss, but then Hannibal tilts his head just _so_. Will blinks, and then he's seeing himself as Hannibal sees him: just a man in an old armchair, unshaven, eyes wet, daydreaming. Just a child.

"Stop," says Will.

Hannibal stretches his fingers off of Will's throat. Will takes a deep breath and blood spurts from his severed neck, flowing hot and wet into his collar. He dies a little and then it's over. He's whole.

Will lets go of Hannibal, his hands dropping into his lap. Hannibal lets go, too, but he doesn't go far. He leans against the armrest and watches with a kind of sympathetic fascination as Will winds down from his own imagination, like an addict off his high, taking long gulps of healing air. With every second that passes the world slips back into place. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Will swipes his thumb over his eyes. For as many years as it's been he still feels the burn of shame when someone sees him like this, and even more so because it's this man. Hannibal can see so much, and without the theatrics. It isn't fair.

Will looks up at him, allowing indignation and distrust rebuild the armor around his mind, and asks, "Why?"

"Curiosity." Hannibal pushes away from the chair and moves to a table set against the wall, where a pitcher of water is waiting. He pours a glass. "I wanted to see what you would do."

Will scoffs. The walls are firmly back in place. "Do you strangle all your patients?"

"I barely touched you," says Hannibal pleasantly. He offers up the glass, and though Will doesn't want to accept, his mouth is unbearably dry, so he does. "Besides," Hannibal continues as Will takes careful sips, "you are not my patient."

"Jack Crawford might beg to differ," Will says, more weary than bitter.

"I was asked only to observe, nothing more." The edge of Hannibal's lip twitches. "I would have it no other way. There's nothing in you that needs curing, Will."

Hannibal reaches out again, and Will holds very still. He shivers beneath the slow caress of Hannibal's fingernail across his throat, tracing and invisible scar. He feels a pull like fresh stitches in his skin. It's only a matter of time before they split, the blood will rush out, and his own hands may not be enough.

But Hannibal only smiles. "I like you very much," he says. "Just the way you are."


End file.
